


more at home in your hand

by CourtedByDeath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 20:29:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CourtedByDeath/pseuds/CourtedByDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is as ethereal untouchable creature dancing  the city alone longing for a companion. John Watson is a loyal soldier taken from the field searching for a purpose. Imperfect and flawed as they are they're just what the other needs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	more at home in your hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MD_Sora02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MD_Sora02/gifts).



> Word count: 1,300 exactly
> 
> Dedication: Dedicated with all of my love and most tender affections  to/for [MDSora](http://mdsora.tumblr.com/) \- Because the past few days have been hell for you and I wanted to make you feel better & help you sleep. Extended and edited as promised.
> 
> AN: There are a few references to other works such as [“The Steadfast Tin Soldier” by HCA](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Steadfast_Tin_Soldier) I tried to keep this kind of gen for once it can be taken as a shippy fic or a really really close friend’s fic (I think - I tried okay). Might revisit this with a little Post-TRF tidbit but that would certainly be Johnlock. Title is from [“The Sound of a Heartbreak” - To Be Juliet’s Secret](http://youtu.be/zUTTKzyDvpk).   
>  __
>
>>   
>  So keep my heart   
>  It’s more at home in your hand   
>  Then my chest   
>  While I’ve learned how to breathe all over again without you   
>  And if I fall apart   
>  Please remember me at my best   
>  Cause the best part of me was always you   
> 

Once upon a time not so long ago or perhaps it was – no one can clearly recall anymore; there was a man. A brilliant man whose mind made connections and leaps of logic so fast and so seemingly out of the blue that many considered him to be something abnormal. This man was one who lived his life alone; at first this was not by choice for he was feared and rejected by a majority of the masses. Overtime his isolation became self-imposed – for he had learned to reject others before they have the opportunity to do it to him. This man, one Sherlock Holmes by name, created for himself a mental haven a mind palace as he liked to call it (his ego would allow for no other name) – erecting high walls and even higher battlements and towers around his all too fragile heart.

His world became one of nothing but walls and towers, information and knowledge scattered here and there- everywhere in a disorganized, yet still somehow organized chaos.  The landscape was a mass of dull grays, powdery whites, and inky blacks – the only other color to be found was the darkest hue of bloody crimson that he brought in with him from his work; staining his palace with the vivid hue of crime, murder, danger and even death as a warning to all those who dared to even so much as think of treading too closely. 

Already they though him a freak, a monster what harm was there in doing all that he could to further this image they had of him? He did it happily – everything short of committing the crimes himself.  It is in this state he dances, spinning in maddening, dizzying circles throughout his beloved city of London and at times spanning the entire country of England – elegant and graceful as any ballerina. Delicate as he was he was alone and content in his loneliness believing he was protected this way.

That is, of course, until one not so special day when by sheer happenstance and a bit of dumb luck he happened upon a war battered and world worn soldier with a rather nasty limp.

The soldier was old and no longer needed – better, newer, faster, stronger ones had come up from the academies and camps to replace him and he had been cast aside like an unwanted toy in favor of the latest fad; But there was something about him – about John who was steadfast, calm and oh so brave – that for the first time in a very, / _very_ / long time Sherlock felt a cautious stirring of hope fan to life in the long vacant heart in his chest.

Overtime –through countless adventures, fights and dangers – Sherlock slowly began to care about John, what happened to him slowly started to mean more than other things and what John thought of him became one of his highest priorities. Never since childhood had Sherlock wanted to please someone like he did John – he often wanted to and did show off to John so that he would earn John’s eager words of praise; the exclamations of ‘ _Brilliant!_ ’ and ‘ _Fantastic!_ ’ meant more to him than almost anything; he so loved when John was proud of him and praised him with such open affection.

There were good times and bad and through it all much to Sherlock’s surprise John stayed.  Despite Sherlock’s  attempts to push him away, his black moods, his fits and less than clean past John was there; staying with him in the storm and they weathered it together. The threats of danger, crimson warning flags of blood – these things didn’t send John fleeing; if anything John was even more resolved to stay because of these things; saying that Sherlock needed someone to keep an eye on and look after him.

As much as John helped him Sherlock did the same for John. The limp was something Sherlock had found a way to help John with by keeping the other’s mind off of it ridding him of the purely mentally created injury. There were other things that Sherlock couldn’t heal or truly relieve John of – no matter how badly he might wish to do so.  John too had his own dark moods, his rough nights; Sherlock did what he could without making it too obvious that he was trying to help. When John’s nightmares would wake him sometimes with muffled cries - though Sherlock had predicting such nights almost down to a science – well almost - (there were still some nights that they either came or didn’t and still others they came unexpected) but he was waiting playing his violin well into the night to keep John’s sleep soothing and peaceful.

During that time, something rather remarkable began to happen, John armed with nothing but calm patience and bare hands begin chipping away at the great thick walls – creating holds and grips so that he might begin to climb over them. True some of the holds were weak and broke away, crumbling at the slightest weight and John would backslide to a lower point having to etch out different holds. This never seemed to bother John, if he was anything the soldier was determined though Sherlock would happily tell you he was just on this side of stubborn.

With John’s efforts other colors started to trickle into Sherlock’s world – the delicate china blue of the sky that reminded Sherlock of his youth and childish joy, the rich orange of the warm fireplace that crackled merrily on chilly winter days while John read and Sherlock composed. There were other colors too, some less pleasant – like the murky brown of confusion and uncertainty, the twisted sickly yellow of fear; the blazing emerald of jealousy…

 In short, John made his world bright, colorful and full of wonder – but at the same time it became too loud, too big, terrifying and full of so much that Sherlock would feel overwhelmed and overloaded with it all.  Sometimes it made his mind race to the point that there was no silence, he could hear the rush of thoughts, the pop of synapses firing as his mind; that amazing machine struggled to process and filter through the bombardment of stimuli. Some of these days he could handle take it in stride as long as he had something on but when he was suffering a bout of ennui such a thing was akin to torture.

However bad it seemed to become John was there.  Succeeding where few had even tried to climb the wall and join Sherlock in his palace. John was there to offer comfort and console him wordlessly when things were too difficult; overlooking even the absolute worst of his tantrums. There he was in his ridiculous jumpers that always smelt of tea, mint and whatever cologne John had gotten; with a lap that was the best pillow Sherlock had ever had bar none, a comforting hand that fluffed dark curls, fingers massaging his scalp. Often John would let out a soft gentle hum of quiet muttering as he unconsciously read aloud.

He loved these days but there were still others he loved more. They were similar to their more peaceful evenings. They would settle in for the night, have tea at John’s insistence; Sherlock’s head would come to rest on the other man’s thigh and not long after John’s hand would slide into his hair. These nights were different. Instead of hushed readings and whispered conversations or low hums the only sounds were the soothing, fizzling and hissing of the fire, the soft sounds of their breathing and heartbeats; eventually finding a state of perfect synchronization.  John and Sherlock were both happy here in their little haven; both perfectly content on their side of the wall as long as they were together.


End file.
